


La vie en lavande

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bees, Fluff, Gen, Sort of hurt/comfort, lavender honey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1794295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After season 4 as I imagine it, John needs to heal. Sherlock knows the perfect place. Probably overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La vie en lavande

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raxacoriocofallapatorius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raxacoriocofallapatorius/gifts).



> Disclaimer: nothing mine, Conan Doyle and BBC share the rights.   
> A.N. I know that living in Italy I should have brought them to my home and advertised. But ACD whispered to me, “Sherlock's French lineage,” and this was born. Bringing up the Mary is Moran theory again because I believe in it until season 4 will disprove it.   
> I have to confess, I am totally unable to deal with my own emotions, much less other people's. But I figured Sherlock is the same. So, if what I wrote is the entirely wrong thing to do, can we still get points for trying? Pretty please?  
> Dedicated to my dear Raxi. Happy birthday, love! I hope you enjoy this at least a little. :-)

It's after everything. After Moriarty's return to life and his newest game. After the discovery that Mary had, was and would have betrayed them in so many ways and different layers to exhaust even John's apparently infinite capacity for forgiveness. She ran, bringing the child John had really no right to claim with her. He hopes Moriarty treats them well, if that's at all possible. (And yes, she's betrayed  _them._ Sherlock had trusted her with the simple yet paramount task of making John happy in all the ways he couldn't, and she'd thrown it all away – for  _Jim_ of all things. The sleuth had thought they were far more similar. That she  _understood_ .) 

John is left in an empty home he stays in the least he can, riddled with regret and memories. Once, at 221B for a visit – he needs Sherlock's wordless understanding these days – he blurts out, “I need to get away from my life. I know it's wrong and absurd, but I still have the impression that everyone knows how infinitely dumb and pathetic I've been and judges me for it.”

“Are you allergic to bees?” It seems one of Sherlock's usual non-sequiturs, but it's not, as the doctor is about to discover.

Sherlock knows the perfect place to rest and heal, it turns out – but then, for all the shortcomings of his general knowledge, Sherlock knows everything John has ever really needed him to. Before John realizes it, he's taken a couple weeks off work and he's ensconced in a wonderful little house lost somewhere in the countryside near Avignon – and bees are  _everywhere._

Sherlock is with him, with the promise that he'll leave John alone if he so wishes, not that John foresees to want for much loneliness – he's got far too much of it lately. And anyway, John's French is decidedly not fluent. They're completely alone there, but if he needs anything outside the house, sooner or later Sherlock might prove himself necessary. So the sleuth said when offering to come with him, and John wondered why he blabbered – how could he expect to be unwanted. It was so absurd John might not have him adequately reassured him that he'll love his company, like he wouldn't refute at length the idea of a flat earth.

While settling, John has a surprise (one of a type he had once been used to) in the form of a number of dead bees, bumblebees, wasps and other related insects pinned inside his wardrobe. His startled swearing makes Sherlock come in to check what's wrong.

“Oh sorry,” the detective says, “I'd forgotten about that.”

“Did you know this was there?” John queries, _how_ and _why did you give me the room then_ evident in his tone.

“This used to be my room, so...” Sherlock shrugs. Of course he should have remembered his past experiments.

“Your room?” the doctor queries dumbly. He thought Sherlock – well, Mycroft – had rented out the place, and he'd been so eager to get away that he hadn't worried about the details.

“We're at my grandma's house, John. Of course I have a room. And I thought it was better for you to stay there than in Mycroft's – much less in a double room.”

“I'm fine with it if you think it's good,” John agrees. He wouldn't know about Mycroft's room – it's expected the elder Holmes does not want him anywhere near it – but he's intensely grateful that he's not to sleep in another half-empty queen-sized bed. “It's just...you didn't tell me.”

“It didn't matter,” Sherlock retorts.

“Oh no. It matters. Are there any photos of you as a child lying around? I want to see them!” John replies with a grin.

Sherlock would do a great many things for one of John's smiles. Digging up grandmère's photo albums and allowing John to see a ton of blackmail material is only the least of them. It makes John smile again, and sometimes even laugh.

John remarks, “I wish I'd known you back then,” as if it's no big thing – as if the idea of having a friend at the time isn't world-changing.

Sherlock awkwardly replies, “I concur,” and that very same stiltedness makes them laugh again. They've spent just an afternoon here, and John's anguish already seems eons away. (Only seems, of course.)

They spend quiet, relaxed days laying down among the lavender that covers almost every inch of the estate (save for the odd rose – grandmère was a romantic). Ostensibly, they observe the bees busily buzzing around. In truth, they steal glances at each other. Sherlock to gauge if the atmosphere really exerts the healing influence he's always found so beneficial. John because this is a different Sherlock, one that will sometimes share past experiments or random tidbits of summers gone – and he'll always be a glutton for every nuance of Sherlock he can have.

“I've always loved it here,” the sleuth confesses, once. “Sometimes I like to imagine that, when I'll be unfit for the Work, I might retire somewhere a bit like this...maybe in a location where I can go to London if I become nostalgic without having to get on a plane.”

It's recent development. Indeed, he used to expect that the Work – well, some criminal or other – would kill him way before his joints started to protest the chases. He was ok with that prospect. Almost relieved by it. But John has made him want to live beyond his own usefulness in the same breath that he's become the reason for which Sherlock would throw everything away if needed (his own life being not even the most important).

The detective expects to be mercilessly teased for admitting that he will very likely miss London, but – not for the first time – John is unpredictable. His friend only queries softly, “And would there be an extra room in this retirement haven of yours?”

“For you _always_ , John,” he replies earnestly.

“Good,” the doctor declares, as always when he's taken by surprise (but what is unexpected? The answer? The fervour?) and he has no better words. For a writer, he can be considerably inarticulate.

He'll look so forward to John's visits, he already knows. Achingly so. That's all his friend meant when asking for a room right? Nothing more. He realizes that what his mind is already imagining is an impossible dream. John won't give up his romantic pursuits just because Mary was utter failure, he'll find someone else to settle with (hateful as that sounds). There's no way that – as his fevered mind fantasizes – they're going to live together again thirty years from now. They aren't even back to being flatmates in London, for crying out loud. But God, how perfect would that be.

Sherlock initiates his friend to the joys of lavender honey (all these bees are good for something beyond viciously stinging too-curious children). The sleuth suspects it had a preeminent role in the development of Mycroft's sweet tooth, and John learns quickly to love it too. Lavender is the drug Sherlock is getting John hooked on, in all forms. It's harmless after all, and if it helps even minutely to unwind the knot coiled so tight in John's chest, why shouldn't they use it? Aromatherapy, phytotherapy, any therapy that works...Sherlock is not picky.

Not all days are lazy – he wouldn't want John to get bored. Sometimes, they go sightseeing, and Sherlock amuses his friend by deducing people. It's a game they'll never, ever get tired of. It should be obvious. But that John hasn't still grown jaded towards it ( _tired of him_ ) never fails to evoke both surprise and deep, overwhelming relief in the detective. Beyond their private entertainment, they get around to properly admire a few things. After all, these landscapes have inspired plenty of poets and painters.

These outings have an unexpected consequence. It becomes soon clear that John loves the way Sherlock speaks French. It sends him into unreasonable fits of giggling, despite being completely correct. Sherlock files away the knowledge and uses it deftly anytime it looks like John's thoughts, despite everything, are turning back to sad memories.

Sherlock can't take the heartbroken look that still comes over his John sometimes. (It's his John now, since the people entitled to that claim have renounced him, and Sherlock wants him – so much.) It's inevitable, of course, but John should never be sad. (He's been sad way too much already.)

All too soon, John's days off come to an end. The last evening, Sherlock blurts out, “If you want to stay some more, I'm sure it can be arranged.” Mycroft should be made to prove his usefulness sometimes.

They've had such a wonderful time, properly together again. It's so much better than John visiting him, however often. It's just not the same thing. A part of him – a very big part, admittedly – wants to kidnap John and keep him here forever. Out of reach of everyone else.

“Tempting as it is, I'll have to go back to my life someday. Better to stick to plans.” Sherlock must be too unguarded these days, because John reads him. “ Do _you_ want us to stay a little more?” the doctor asks softly.

He cannot answer, “Permanently,” too afraid of possible reactions, so he lets another truth slip out instead. “I only want you to be happy, John.” Wherever it might be. Preferably together, of course, but Sherlock will bow to anything John wants.

“Thanks,” the doctor utters, a bit taken aback by the gravity of his friend's voice.

Still, Sherlock thinks, it's such a pity that after this, they both have to go back to their achingly empty homes. John's place is to remain gaping forever, Mary-sized holes cut in the very fabric of the space (he supposes; if it's anything like what Sherlock knows so well). After all, she's certainly not coming back. 221B could become whole again. Sherlock hadn't dared to ask yet, too scared of the possible refusal, but after having _this_ back...maybe even John remembers now how utterly good they are for each other, when living together.

“Back to London it is, then. But you shouldn't be alone, even there. You're not meant to live like that. May I point out that your room in Baker Street is free? It would, after all, be utterly impossible for me to ever have another flatmate,” the detective remarks. It isn't just that a substitute of John is simply inconceivable (he's tried it with Molly, and look how that went). All the reasons that made him say, “Who'd want _me_ for a flatmate?” to Stamford years ago still stand. If anything, they've only compounded with new ones.

“Are you inviting me to take residence back at home?” John replies, pleasantly surprised. He doesn't even notice his own wording. Because 221B – however painful living there might have been for a time, enough to drive John out – has never entirely stopped being home for him.

“Of course John. Do keep up with the conversation, please,” Sherlock huffs, sounding annoyed. He's always harsh when he's uncomfortable – and now, with the suspense eating at him, he definitely is. If only John would stop stalling _and just say yes_. It would be like turning back time. Second chance. Hopefully they can get it right this time around.

“Thanks. It might take a little time to sort everything out, but I'll love being back. Though I thought that by now my room would have been turned into an additional lab,” the doctor confesses. Can he really have back his old life, together with his old room? Probably not entirely – too many things happened. But God, right now it's good to pretend they could return to that blissful time.

“It wasn't. It's ready when you are, John. Which I hope will be soon,” Sherlock blurts out. _As if I could do that_. Sometimes, tired or playing pretend, he still respected even the experiment shelves/ food shelves distinction John had tried to enforce in his days, _so John wouldn't get angry at him._ Flatmate John had always wanted his room experiment-free, and so it had stayed.

Not to mention that Sherlock barely dared to enter the room these days. When he did, he was overwhelmed by his friend's glaring absence. (The chair was bad enough; but at times, he could pretend with himself that it was empty only because John was momentarily somewhere else. The empty room instead, devoid of every John detail and dusty, was simply heartrending.)

“I hope so too,” John agrees sincerely. There are things to sort out, but he can't wait to return to the kind of emergencies that come with sharing a home with Sherlock Holmes, however nice relaxed, holiday-style Sherlock is. He went to his new place – and Mary – to escape Sherlock's absence and now he'll be back where he came from after Mary's betrayal. John is a goddamned pendulum – but he wants to still. If they are lucky, maybe now he can. (Well, he won't mind another stop further down the line. One with bees and _still Sherlock_ and – why not – a few lavender bushes.)


End file.
